


Rose-Colored Glasses

by downlookingup



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, F/M, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23164009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downlookingup/pseuds/downlookingup
Summary: President!Jaime and Speechwriter!Brienne have a quickie backstage at a gala.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 36
Kudos: 377





	Rose-Colored Glasses

**Author's Note:**

> Started out as shameless smut, turned into smut with feelings like it always does. Hope it's not absolutely terrible. Un-beta'ed.

“Take out the part about Waymar Royce,” Jaime says, adjusting the tie in the mirror. The hair and makeup stylist––a brunette with a gap-toothed smile––fluffs her powder brush at his nose and he flinches away, glaring at her. She’s been making goo-goo eyes at him for the last hour and a half and he’s sick of it.

In the mirror, Brienne Tarth glares at _him_. “All due respect, sir,” she starts, her tone implying that she has very little respect left, “but I think that’s a bad idea. Royce’s family is in the audience.”

Waymar Royce was the useless son of the useless mayor of Bronzegate. He died in a bar fight, and his family had since started a crusade against the bar owner for not cutting him off that night. Nevermind that Waymar had been high as a kite on ketamine. It wasn’t a coincidence that the bar owner was also running for mayor.

“They just want a soundbite they can play in the ads to fuck the other guy over,” he snaps, and the makeup woman giggles, like she’s been let in on a joke. Jaime rolls his eyes at Brienne in the mirror, tries to tell her with a look, _See what you made me do? Now she’s going to tell her friends the president cursed in front of her._

Brienne replies with a telling look of her own. _I didn’t force you to say it._

“If you don’t tell the Royces how sorry you are for their loss, they’re going to come after you. And you need Bronzegate to win the Vale and the Vale to win reelection.”

The makeup woman was now tugging at his sideburns with her comb, smoothing down the strands and setting them with hair spray. She crowded his vision so he could only barely see Brienne’s reflection over the woman’s shoulder. Jaime remembered Yohn Royce from the cross-country trip he had made two years earlier after Robert’s death. Royce struck him as a sly old crook, obsessed with ingratiating himself with Jaime because of how it would look in the media. He reminded Jaime of his dad’s friends––the Capitol Hill Glad-handers, like Tyrion used to call them––who accepted him into their fold when he was clerking for Justice Targaryen and didn’t hesitate to stab him in the back after the shit hit the fan.

“I don’t need the Royces to win the Vale. Royce is behind on the polls anyway, isn’t he?”

“By five points,” Brienne says, “but that doesn’t mean anything at this point. Shouldn’t you want him to win, anyway? He’s a member of your party, sir.”

Jaime cranes his head away from the makeup woman so he can look at Brienne over his shoulder, straight in her solemn blue eyes. “He’s a prick.”

Her eyes flash with annoyance. “So you’d rather let the Federalist bar owner win?”

“Just take it out of the remarks, Tarth.” He hasn’t used her surname like that in weeks. The foreignness of it falls like a stone between them. Her face tells him she noticed.

“You’re making a mistake, _Lannister_.”

Another giggle from the makeup woman, and Jaime has enough. “Can you just give us a second, please?”

The woman sobers up, jumping back a foot. “Do you––do you want me to go––”

“Outside, yes.” Jaime stands up, crosses the dressing room in a few strides and swings the door wide open. Peck and the rest of his entourage is just outside, waiting to be allowed in. But Jaime waves the woman out and shuts the door again, locking it for good measure.

“Don’t do that,” he says, once they’re alone.

Brienne’s arms are crossed over her chest. She’s trying to hide the neckline of the dress he ordered for her just for this fundraiser. It’s a simple black velvet gown with a v-neckline that barely shows off anything. “Do what?”

“Argue with me in front of other people. It makes me look bad.”

That familiar mulish look is on her face again. Jaime wants to kiss her until it fades. “I don’t care how it makes you look. You’re acting like an asshole.”

Jaime comes around behind her, standing just a few inches away. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough so that she can feel the solid mass of him. “I _am_ an asshole, sweetheart,” he murmurs close to her ear. “You should know that by now.”

Her eyes are fixed on his in the mirror. Any second now. “Not _all_ the time,” she says.

Jaime can’t help but grin. “Is that so?”

Brienne nods, never taking her eyes away from his reflection. _Now_. She reaches back for his right arm and wraps it around her waist, pressing the length of her body against his. “Mm-hmm. You can be pretty nice when you try.”

“I would have tried last night,” he says against the shell of her ear. “You should have come to the office before you went home.” His right hand is drawing circles over her stomach, each pass bringing him closer to her breast until he can grasp it through the heavy fabric of her gown. 

The gasp she lets out in response, followed by a soft moan, is like a dog whistle. His cock begins to harden and he presses his pelvis against her ass so she can feel it. 

“Jaime...”

“I would have been _so_ nice, Brienne,” he says before dipping his head to her neck. He can’t leave a mark there, not tonight, but seven hells, does he want to. She’s moaning louder now, her ass moving in perpetual motion against his throbbing dick. 

“I know. I wanted to, but Hyle insisted on walking me to my car.”

Jaime snaps his head up to scowl at her. “Hyle? That _intern_?”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “He’s not an intern, he’s an analyst.”

“He’s analyzing how many protein shakes he’ll have to drink to get into your pants.”

Her guffaw of laughter takes him by surprise, the way it always does. She doesn’t laugh nearly as much as she should. “There aren’t enough protein shakes in the world.”

Jaime brings his other hand up to squeeze her other breast. “So you didn’t take him home?”

She scrunches her formidable nose in disgust. “Why would I, when I can just walk into the Oval Office and fuck the most powerful man in the world?”

Jaime surges against her, propelling them both forward until they’re pushed up against the makeup counter, the lighted mirror illuminating their faces. “Fuck. Brienne. I need you.”

Her eyes widen, 

Her hand slides back between them and she grasps the hard line of his cock. She strokes him slowly over his pants. “I guess I can’t let you go out there like this,” she says. 

“What do you plan on doing about it?”

Before he can even finish speaking, she’s turned around in his arms and gone straight for his belt. Her lips are painted a lovely deep red that reminds Jaime of a juicy apple. She cranes her face away from him when he leans in. 

“You’ll get lipstick all over your face,” she protests. 

“I don’t care, let them all know I––” His voice hitches as she slides her large, warm hand inside his underwear and around his cock. “ _Fuck_.”

“Don’t start,” she says, her hand sliding up and down his shaft, slowly and firmly. She knows exactly how to drive him crazy. “You _do_ care and you _should_ care whether anyone finds out.”

He’s tugging up her dress, yards and yards of black velvet, so he can pull down her underwear and sink his hand between her thighs.

Brienne lets out a long breath against his ear when he does, his fingers sliding between her wet, swollen lips. 

“Do you really want to talk about that now?” He gives her clit a deliberate pass with his thumb that makes her shudder before moving down to tease her hole. She’s absolutely dripping, and Jaime feels like the luckiest man in the world to be with a woman like her. One who’s whip-smart, stubborn, dedicated, kind. Who’s so aroused at the thought of being with him that her pussy feels like a fountain. A woman who lo––

“ _No._ Just–– _fuck_ ––get inside me, now.” She sits on the makeup counter and props one leg up, spreading herself for him.

Jaime shoves down his tuxedo pants, tugs his shirt out of the way, and aims his cock at her entrance.

Like always, the moment of their joining is transcendent. An alignment of stars, the filling of a void inside him that leaves him feeling complete. The Valyrians call it _rhaepan_ : finding the missing piece of a puzzle.

Brienne lets out a moan and pulls him towards her, her hands clutching at his ass to drive him even further inside her.

“Gods, you feel so fucking good,” he grunts against her neck. He’s wrapped in her heat, her smell, her wetness. It’s as if the world has shrunk down to a pinprick of light containing only the two of them.

It’s been like this since the beginning, twelve years ago, when Brienne was just a junior reporter for The _Storm’s End Post_ and he was a congressman for the Westerlands running for his second term. She asked him a fairly aggressive question about coal plant regulation during a press conference in Riverrun––she thought he wasn’t doing enough to reduce coal emissions, and he fought her in front of fifty people about regulations being draconian, but of course, she was right––and they bumped into each other at a local pub later that night. 

Their romp inside the restroom was rushed and quiet, but it was seared into his memory. The way she arched her back to get his cock deeper, how her voice hitched in his ear when he thrust against her in just the right spot, and the way all his worries seemed to fade away for those blissful minutes he was in her arms.

Jaime thrusts against her, every stroke into her slick heat sending bolts of pleasure through his cock, around his balls, down his legs, and up his spine. 

“Hurry,” she whispers, bouncing against him, chasing her orgasm. Brienne puts her fingers against his lips, gently prodding, and Jaime opens his mouth to let her in. He sucks on her lips, laving them with his saliva, and when they’re wet enough for her liking, she pulls her fingers out and brings them to her clit, stroking it with a fury that makes him growl.

“Make me come, Jaime. Make me come. _Please_.”

“Oh, sweetling, I will.”

He braces his hands in the mirror behind her and thrusts into her with abandon, making the counter tremble and creak. For a second, he worries they might be heard outside, but the thought is driven from his mind immediately. Brienne’s hand between them is a blur and a long, low whine escapes her gaping mouth. 

Jaime feels every flutter in her orgasm as her hot cunt pulses against him. He tries to hold on as long as he can, but it’s too much. His orgasm rips through him like a lightning bolt. He thrusts into Brienne blindly, his cock throbbing deliciously inside her as he fills her.

They hold onto each other as it passes, and for a few seconds longer. Jaime’s head rests on Brienne’s chest. Her heart beats fast like a hummingbird’s.

“I don’t want to go out there.”

Brienne sighs and nudges his head up to face her. With her cheeks pink and her mouth wet, Jaime thinks she looks beautiful like this, though she wouldn’t like him to say so. “Me either. But this is how you win.”

“I don’t care about winning,” he says, sounding like a petulant boy to his own ears. If losing was what it took to get him to keep her, then he’d accept it gladly. It was a small price to pay to have her in his house, in his life, to bring her to galas like this as his date, his wife.

“You don’t mean that. Think of all the lives we could change, the difference we could make.”

It was an echo of what he said to her four years ago so she would leave her position at the _King’s Landing Times_ and join his campaign as chief speechwriter. They hadn’t seen each other since that night in the Riverrun pub, but he’d followed her career as she blossomed as a writer and a political analyst. She took him to task for every vote he made in Congress and every stance he took. Hers was the voice he heard every time a billionaire called his office and tried to strike a deal for slashing regulations, thinking he was just like his father. When he decided to run for president, she was one of the first calls he made. She told him she didn’t work for politicians. 

“Do you want to actually change lives and make a difference, or do you just want to write about it?” he said.

He still wonders if he meant it or if he just said it to win her over. They’ve done the work, real policy decisions that have improved people’s lives. But it doesn’t come as a second nature to him the way it does to her. And every once in a while, and more often in the past few months as election day nears, Jaime is filled with impending doom at the thought that, one day soon, Brienne will realize what kind of man he is and turn away from him forever. 

Sometimes he sees himself through her eyes and he almost believes what he sees. Those glimpses, like portals into an alternate universe, make him want to be the kind of man she believes him to be. He thinks maybe that’s what makes an honorable person––doing the right thing when your nature would have you do otherwise.

So he kisses her cheek and doesn’t disagree.

He grabs some tissues from the makeup table and cleans them both up. He puts the tissues inside his jacket instead of tossing them in the garbage.

A few seconds more and they’re fully dressed, ready to face the world. 

Jaime walks to the door. “Ready?”

“One more thing.” 

Brienne grabs his right arm, pushes the sleeve up, and plants a kiss on his wrist, leaving a dark red imprint of her lips. She pushes the sleeve down again, hiding it, and gives him a wink.

“I fucking love you,” he says, catching himself too late. In the four years since she’s been on his team, six months since they slept together for the second time, he’s never said it before, no matter how much he felt it. Brienne’s face goes pale, then goes red, smiles, frowns. The words finally register. “Shit, I didn’t mean to curse. Fuck.”

She laughs, her eyes shimmering. “I fucking love you too. But we have to go.”

Jaime opens the door and they’re immediately surrounded by noise. 

“We’re on in two minutes, sir,” Peck says, almost bursting out of his suit with anxiety.

“I’ll read the Royce thing,” he tells Brienne and follows Peck to the stage.

“Thank you,” she calls after him, a smile in her voice.

The crowd roars as he steps on stage. He waves, stands behind the podium, and starts to read the speech she wrote for the hundreds of donors in formal wear in the dining room before him. He reads for them but not at them. His eyes are fixed on the pair of blue eyes in the back of the room, standing a mile taller than the rest.


End file.
